Ordinary
by MizSphinx
Summary: He'd like to change her opinion of him. But how high is her cost for his redemption? Post 'Brave New World.'


**AN:** So, I'm going to try my hand at a full-fledged Sylaire fic. This story has been on my mind for quite some time now, and, although I had plans of writing out the whole thing first before posting, I'm feeling a bit hasty today.

Even though I say it's 'full-fledged,' chapters are still going to be fairly short—consisting of, at most, six MS Word pages. The timeline is right after 'Brave New World' and will _probably_ include snippets of the lives of other characters besides Sylar and Claire. This is not a songfic, although the main themes of the story are derived heavily from Train's 'Ordinary.' (Spiderman, FTW!)

**TL;DR:** Short chapters. Begins right after Brave New World. Have fun.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Heroes, nor do I make any money from this written fanfiction work. All ownership lies on the fortunate shoulders of Tim Kring.

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><p><strong>1<strong>

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><p><em>Whose eyes am I behind?<em>

_I don't recognize anything that I see._

_Whose skin is this design?_

_I don't want this to be the way that you see me._

* * *

><p>She is giving him that look again.<p>

That baleful unblinking stare of complete distrust. It is akin to the gaze of a feral she-cat that is cornered by a well-meaning human. Her claws are bared; her mouth is pulled back in a low and menacing growl. Soon she'll leap, a guttural otherworldly sound in her throat, slashing her front paws this way and that, slicing his flesh into ribbons of blood.

She hates him.

No, Claire Bennet does not hate him. Hate is oversimplifying the true depth of emotion she harbours for him. But his list of synonyms is short. Hate will have to do.

"Can't we do this without him?" she says to Choir Boy—it's the name he has associated with Peter Petrelli. The resident goodie-two-shoes of the group. He supposes Peter considers himself their moral compass, but Sylar just thinks him incredibly annoying.

"Claire, they're holding hostages," Choir Boy replies, utilising his 'meaningful tone.' "He's the best we've got."

The rest of them—Hiro, Ando and Micah; Choir Boy's protégés—nod in agreement.

"We don't need him," she hisses.

"Claire—" begins Choir Boy, upping his tone to 'placatory yet adamant,' but he has grown tired of being spoken about as though he's not in that very same room. As a matter of fact, he's grown tired of her. Her and her spoiled, bratty attitude, and her dirty looks as though he is an emaciated dog that has rolled itself in vomit and shit, and has dared to try and lick her hand in hopes of acceptance.

He doesn't _need_ her fucking acceptance.

"Look," he says, sneering at the two of them, "I don't have time to waste to suffer through your sad attempt at teamwork, neither do I like being referred to as if I'm not here. Frankly, I could care less whether you'll decide if 'you need me or not' because, guess what? I've decided I have better things to do elsewhere."

As he walks away, he hears Peter calling after him, but he does not stop, nor does he turn around. He feels her staring at him, her eyes heavy like the weight of bags of salt on his shoulders. When he is outside, he thinks to himself, "Good riddance," because, in the back of his mind, he knows that that is what she's thinking, too.

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><p>Sometimes, he wants to kill again.<p>

And it's usually because of her.

Claire Bennet.

She makes it so hard for him to want to be good when every single one of her gazes speaks volumes of how evil he'll always be. Where Peter Petrelli is Jesus the Moral Guide, she is God. And in her Book is the list of wrong-doers whom she shall judge accordingly. She has weighed him in the balance and has found him wanting. There is no use for him in her world. Her condemning eyes say so.

_Sylar, thou art the devil._

She will forever see the killer; never the man that tries his best every day to redeem himself.

Yes, sometimes, he wants to kill again, and most of the time he does not. Within himself is a constant war between good and evil. An incessant tug-of-war between what he used to be and what he wants to be. The fight quite similar to that period he'd been forced to believe he was Nathan Petrelli, but greater. So much greater because lives are at stake. His image is at stake. Her opinion of him is at stake.

Because, even though he religiously denies it, the sad truth is that his greatest reason for wanting to be good is for her.

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><p>Claire releases her breath in a whoosh of relief.<p>

She is so glad he's gone.

She just can't stand him. Why he's even a part of the group is beyond her. How can her dad and Angela even think that that evil bastard has changed? He's a serial killer! A living and breathing psycho with the biggest God-complex that ever existed.

He has killed so many people, and has traumatised a lot more—including her. His saving those people at Samuel's carnival did not automatically justify him being classified as 'good.' What about the countless lives he has ruined? What about the nightmares he has undoubtedly induced? What about all those undeserving deaths that has gone unpunished?

Her dad and Angela are incredibly foolish, she thinks, to send him out as one of the scouts for Specials. Sylar is a wolf that has clothed himself in sheep's wool, a deadly creature pretending to be harmless. But there will come a time he'll shed all that pretty whiteness and reveal the horrific darkness and bestiality that is intrinsically him. There will come a time that all those who have forgotten, all those who have come to already accept him—that included everyone except her—will regret they ever did so.

And she will be the only one saying, "I told you so."

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><p>Despite his grand departure, he follows them to the bank where the hold-up is in session. Leaning against a nearby shade tree, he watches as the police and the S.W.A.T team surround the building like big black ants around a piece of stale cake. He smirks at their foolish bravery. Against regular civilians, their guns and smoke-bombs and ballistic vests are near infallible, but this hostage-holding group are not regular civilians. They're not <em>ordinary<em>. And it is just a shame they will be learning this fact shortly.

As if on cue, the glass front doors of the bank explode in an ear-ringing bang. The bodies of a few members of the S.W.A.T team are flung some distance to the floor, and hysteric screaming, as well as the sounds of battle, can be heard from within the bank. Sylar thinks, as he still leans casually against his tree, his arms folded across his chest, that if the situation is not under Choir Boy's control in the next five minutes, he might actually lift a helping finger.

Although, leaving them to suffer a good beating as punishment for ostracising him has its appeal…

_Claire._

Just one word and he is no longer leaning against the shade tree.

He scowls.

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><p>"Good work," says Noah Bennet grudgingly,<p>

"Sure." But Sylar is distracted. The familiar itch has returned. No, not an itch. An intense sensation hovering somewhere around his heart; like a wide gaping hole demanding it be refilled. The Hunger.

He is staring at one of the Specials that was involved in the hold-up. A brooding, brown-haired young woman with the ability to pass through solid matter. An extraordinary power—and he wants it. The Hunger in his chest begins to throb painfully with the need to acquire that ability. To learn more about it, to make better use of it than the girl ever will. His fingers begin to twitch.

No. No more.

He will not kill again. He will _not kill again_. But yet, the Hunger persists. It is an unrelenting force that continuously challenges his willpower, testing him, weakening him with each wave. His breathing has deepened and quickened as the pain in his chest magnifies. And he bears it. He welcomes the ache because it has its significance. Each strike a form of penance he must pay. Enforced and endured punishment.

He will not kill again.

No more. _Please_.

He looks away from the girl and finds that Noah is watching him. Watching and waiting to see what he will do…_if _he'll do it. And he sneers and looks away from Noah, and finds that Claire is watching him, too. Watching him, reading him, _knowing_ him, her pretty face contorted in a look of perfect revulsion and loathing as she stares him down.

_Murderer_, her eyes say. And her lips might have formed the words too, Sylar isn't sure.

_Don't look at me like that_, he wants to scream.

She must have heard his thoughts because she turns her head and walks away.


End file.
